


An Imitation of Life

by misanthropyray



Series: Innocent Smile [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Teen!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropyray/pseuds/misanthropyray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft attempts to steer his teenage brother into social normality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Imitation of Life

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thank yous to [](http://eckax.livejournal.com/profile) **[eckax](http://eckax.livejournal.com/),**  my ever faithful cheerleader and motivator, and to [](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/profile) **[thisprettywren](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/),** , my resident punctuation genius and sounding board (All remaining mistakes are entirely my own). Possibly for The Gloria Scott, if you squint a bit.

It’s June and it’s antisocially hot outside. I’ve just woken up to this hatefully sunny day and I feel like I’ve become fused with the sheets beneath me. Enid has been into the room at some ungodly hour to open the curtains (a thoroughly passive aggressive move on her part) and my bed lies directly in the pool of light, forcing my sleepy pupils to constrict far quicker than I would like. Sadly, I don’t think housekeepers can get fired for forcing accelerated papillary reflexes, though daydreaming is a harmless occupation.

I separate myself from the white cotton and trudge over to the bathroom that adjoins my bedroom. I shed my pyjama bottoms and climb into the shower, turning the arm to full power and letting the needles of water wash away the night’s sweat. I plan my day whilst taking care of an uncomfortable erection. It’s one side effect of puberty which I hadn’t fully expected and is troublesome to say the least. I tried ignoring them for as long as possible but the levels of bed linen laundry were getting embarrassing, even for me. Luckily, with a bit of practise, I can now dispense of any unwanted stiffness in under 5 minutes and without it interrupting my train of thought to an unmanageable degree.

Today needs planning; it needs to be a good day because tomorrow, Mycroft returns from university to upset my little existence and to stick his nose in where it could not be less wanted. Final exams are over so who knows when we’ll be rid of him this time.

It makes sense that on my last day of freedom I should engage in my favourite activities, which makes my first point of call an obvious one. After that, the rest of the day can unfurl, following any discoveries made.

After dressing, I open the heavy window on the eastern wall. Moving the silver breakfast tray out of the way (boiled egg and soldiers. For how many years does someone have to ignore breakfast before they give up?), I clamber up and sit on the windowsill. My telescope sits in a mahogany box at my side and I smooth my hands over the dark wood before flicking the latch and lifting it out from its crushed velvet, navy bedding. The telescope goes into a little fabric hammock, which I’ve attached to my window pulley system. I swing it out of the window and gently lower it into the flower bed beneath, where it lands with a muffled thud onto the earth. I follow it out the window and climb down the ivy, fetching the brass telescope at the bottom and hiding the pulley line in the ivy leaves for later.

I run to the side of the house and towards the stables. Behind them is my favourite tree; the tallest tree in the estate which, helpfully, also looks out across the windows of the servants quarters. Reaching the first branch is always a bit tricky but I’ve done it hundreds of times so now I can usually manage it on the first attempt. A jump to grab the low hanging end of the branch, followed by pulling down of the rest of the limb, so I can use the trunk to walk up and hook my legs over before hauling myself upright. It rained last night and the branch is slippery, but it doesn’t cause me any notable problems.

From the top branches, I can see into all the windows on the opposing side of the manor, including two of the skylights in the roof. I settle down on the branch, resting my chest along the length of it and aiming the spyglass at the top right-hand window to begin a methodical study of them. Enid has recently completed ten years of service with us and I see that Mummy must have given her a bonus. She’s bought new bed linen and there’s a small shopping bag on her dressing table, the label is obscured but I presume it contains clothing of some variety. Most likely a new overcoat although I won’t discount the possibility of the bag containing shoes; there was a creak in the soles of her favourite pair a few weeks ago, before they disappeared and she began to wear a shabbier pair instead. The room was neat and contained little else of note. How boring.

It takes me 3 hours to properly observe the rest of the windows and the final one proved to be the most interesting. Our stable hand had stormed out not long ago; I can’t be blamed just because _someone_  didn’t want to know that they weren’t the biological father of their son. The new stable hand is far younger than we’d had before and only a year older than myself. His small room is still covered in brown cardboard boxes, but there are posters already covering the walls. Little action figures were lined up on the mantelpiece and clothes lay strewn on the floor.

I decide that the new addition to the household justifies indulging in a closer look and I begin to make my way down the tree. It’s approaching midday and the summer heat was becoming intense. My hands are sweating from both the heat and the climbing effort and it’s almost in slow motion when I feel my foot lurching to one side. I try to reach out to grab hold of a branch and stop myself from falling, but the smoothed bark slips through my fingers. I fall about ten feet and land with a sickening crunch and a sharp, white pain shooting through my left leg. The first cry I let out is automatic but the second and third are from the intense pain coming in waves from my ankle and spreading out to every cell in my body.

I hear running footsteps coming towards me and try to turn to see the incoming party, but I manage to move my leg a fraction of an inch and the pain redoubles.

“Are you alright, Sir?”

The fresh face of the new stable hand flashes into view above me. His sandy, blond hair is messy and falls across his forehead in all directions, his tanned skin offset by a bottle green jacket. There’s some evidence of hay stuck scattered across the collar and his hands seem to belong to someone much older. He kneels down next to me and puts a broad hand on my shoulder, face full of genuine concern.

“I’m evidently not ‘alright’. My ankle; I fell and I think I’ve fractured it.”

“Don’t move, I’ll go and get help.”

He leaves as quickly as he arrived, darting towards the house.

\----

A&E could not have been more unpleasant. It was a whirlwind of white coats, x-rays, over-friendly nurses and unwanted attention. The best part of it was being sent home dosed up on painkillers. So that’s where I am now, lying in bed wrapped in white cotton sheets and the comfortable softness of prescription medication. My head feels heavy and my brain is swimming around in an endless haze when there’s a soft tap on the door.

“What?”

I turn my head to the door as it opens to reveal Mycroft leaning against the frame. He’s wearing gunmetal grey suit trousers with a razor crease running down the front and a pale blue shirt that’s evidently new, even though some of the buttons are already starting to strain across his rounded middle. I can’t help by let out a sigh of disappointment at the sight of him.

“You aren’t supposed to be home until tomorrow.”

“I heard of your little dalliance with the old elm and adjusted my plans accordingly.”

“I see self sufficiency hasn’t quelled your appetite.”

“Welcoming as ever, little brother.”

He stares for a moment with eyebrow raised before entering the room and closing the door behind him. He seats himself on the corner of the bed whilst I busy myself gathering up material in my hand and running it through my fingers, studiously avoiding his gaze.

He seems to be waiting for some sort of response but eventually realises my total lack of interest in engaging with him.

“Maybe this little accident could be more fortuitous than it seems; now we’ll have plenty of time to concentrate on your studies over summer. Where are they?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Mycroft, I can’t. Look, I have a cast!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise you’d broken your brain as well as your ankle.”

“You know, sarcasm really doesn’t become you.”

“Where are they?”

Mycroft loved having a captive audience and the twinkle in his eye prophesies the hours of tedious social ingratiation studies stretching out before me. My arm, heavy with painkillers, flops out of the bed and points over to the Persian rug. He flips back the corner of the rug, examining the floorboard for a split second before reaching his pocket and pulling out a Swiss army knife, gently dipping the blade into the well worn crevasse at one end and easing the board up. He knows that I haven’t opened them since the day he gave them to me and, although he has enquired about my progress, he’s never made a serious effort to implement his threat of trying to socialise me. Until now.

He plucks the journal closest to him and replaces the floorboard, dusting off the cover as he returns to his position on the bed. He sits and evaluates me for a moment as his thumbs casually tries to straighten a crease in the corner of the book; the greatest display of emotion I ever receive from Mycroft is the raising of a single eyebrow.

He’s like me and doesn’t need to pretend when it’s just the two of us.

“Sherlock, you need to know these things. What you don’t understand, what you need to appreciate, is that most people don’t see others with the same transparency as you and I. In the world at large, a flawless performance can become a reality. An act becomes the truth and it doesn’t matter what you feel--or don’t--because you can live safely behind an impenetrable wall.”

“What you need to know, Mycroft,”--I feel that if I spit his name aggressively enough he might comprehend the torture he intends to bestow upon me--“is that I don’t care. I don’t want to act and I don’t want to be a part of your crass, ideological society. I just don’t see the point.”

“Well, shall we take today for example?” I mirror his own quirked eyebrow back at him in what I hope is a sufficiently truculent manner, but he continues regardless. “If you’d had someone with you, a... friend, I’m sure you wouldn’t be laid up and wrapped in plaster now. One of the most important lessons one should learn in life if that one  _always_  benefits from having an assistant.”

I study my fingernails and studiously ignore him. He shoves the leather-bound journal into my hands and stands up. My brain is still sluggish from the medication and as I open the book, he says something else which I don’t quite catch. Luckily, I’m sure it’s of less than no interest to me.

\---

  
All too soon, Mycroft returns, this time with an arm full of video cassettes. Trailing behind him is the fresh-faced stable boy carrying a television, which is puts down on the blanket box at the foot of the bed that Mycroft waves a hand towards. His cheeks have flushed in the exertion.

“How’s your leg? I feel so guilty. If only I’d been a closer, I think I coulda stopped you falling. I’m so sorry.”

“My leg is perfectly fine.”

“But, um, you’ve got...” He motions a ruddy hand towards my cast and looks confusedly at me.

“A fractured ankle.”

“Oh. Right. Well, I hope it heals up in no time at all.”

He looks at Mycroft for further instruction with his head lowered and his eyes turned upwards in a thoroughly subservient manner. He is dismissed and scuttles out of the room.

“What a nice boy, don’t you think? And about your own age too.”

I couldn’t help but let out an infuriated sigh; he seems particularly trying today, “If you have a point, please don’t hesitate to make it.”

There goes that errant eyebrow again. I swear I would try and cut that damned eyebrow right off his smug, little face if Mummy wouldn’t have made my life a living hell in the aftermath. When he’s finally finished attempting to boar into my soul, he glides off to plug in the television and arranges the videos into three piles, putting one of Mummy’s dinner place cards on top of each which have written in Mycroft’s impeccable handwriting: Familial Interaction, Platonic Bonding, and Romantic Attachment.

“How thoroughly above and beyond the call of duty, Big Brother” I roll my head back and accidentally knock it against the bedstead in punishment. He takes the first video from the ‘Platonic Bonding’ pile and pushes it into the slot beneath the screen with a ‘clunk’. Removing his shoes, he clambers onto the bed next to me and puts his feet up, fast forwarding through the trailers. A title screen appeared reading ‘The Breakfast Club’.

\----

“Alright, now what is your understanding of what we have just watched?”

“My understanding is that previously, I had little to no understanding of true nature of boredom, but now I seem to have experienced all the facets of hell it can throw at me.”

“You’re being facetious again.”

“Alright, I learned an important lesson about the lack of appropriate supervision in the conventional school environment.” Mycroft shifts his gaze from the paused screen to my face and half rolls his eyes before stopping himself and simply exhaling instead.

“What we’ve just seen is a classic representation of the teenage transition from solitude to social attachment. Through a continual process of information exchange and a building of trust, bonds can easily be made with those around you. By engaging with others, common links can be found and interests exchanged, do you see?”

I snort air through my nose in response. Feeling like a crippled rat in an elaborate maze, I shift my weighted leg resulting in a shooting pain to add to the dull ache. “Is this really necessary?”

“It is imperative.”

I can feel the last vestiges of hope slip away from me as he rolls off the bed and ejects the cassette and runs a finger down the Familial Interaction pile.

\---

It’s the last day of the hunting season and Daddy has invited the local fox hunters to use the grounds during the day and hold their annual celebration afterwards in Holmes Hall. The hunt was apparently a success and everyone is in fine spirits, the hall a mass of fitted red jackets, shining buttons and white trousers alongside the ladies dressed in hats and elegant dresses.

Mycroft and I are suited and booted and seated in a corner; he is wearing his three piece grey herringbone and I am in a slightly mismatched navy pinstripe, after having to borrow the trouser section from Daddy to fit over my cast.

“Now, the male and female standing to the far side of the bar, tell me what you see?”

“They’re young, both early twenties. He works on a farm although I’m not sure what kind, possibly -”

“No, don’t stray from the subject in hand.”

“Well, they’re conversing. The conversation seems fairly fast paced, so they must be familiar with one another. Neither looks displeased or uncomfortable, so they’re... friends?”

“Look at their stances, her head is cocked to one side and she is touching her throat. They have their legs crossed towards one another and have been subconsciously mirroring each other’s mannerisms for the last half hour. Given these facts, what conclusion would you now arrive at?”

“Not friends. Partners then?”

“Close. They’re displaying classic signs of courting, but I would doubt a relationship had already been established. Note the slight nervousness of expression and the exaggerated gesticulation.”

I don’t want to be here. I especially don’t want to be stuck sitting next to bloody Mycroft and, most of all, I want him to end his ridiculous pet project. Every fibre of my being yearns to be locked in the blissful confines of my room, finishing my level 4 biochemistry book.

“Keep observing them, I’ll be right back.”

And with that, Mycroft disappeared into the crowd. Continued observation of the tedious mating ritual didn’t appeal, so I set my attentions to picking the threads from a silk napkin with a fork on the table in front of me; fraying the edges then dragging diagonal patterns through the centre.

Mycroft reappeared with an unfamiliar couple in tow. They were older, in their fifties, married--if their matching wedding bands were anything to go by--and appeared to have consumed two or three glasses of wine already. The male had white hair with golden flecks scattered throughout and a familiar look about him, whilst his female companion had a face lined with expression.

“Sherlock, this is Mr and Mrs Trevor. Their son has just begun work in our stables; they live on the other side of the valley. This is my brother, Sherlock. Shall we sit?”

When he’s finished with his little introductions, and had pulled out a seat for Mrs Trevor, he lands back down into the seat next to me with a thump and casually lays an arm across the back of my chair. I feel a stab of his finger into my ribcage, presumably the prompt for the beginning of a practical lesson. We all continue to sit in silence when there’s another sharp jab to my ribs.

“Um, so did you participate in the hunt today?”

Mr Trevor babbles on about the day’s events. Whenever my gaze veers off round the room or back to the shredded napkin, I’m rewarded with a series of increasingly painful nudges until I begin feigning attentiveness again. A few more torturous exercises in small talk later and they are moving away to the bar to leave us in peace.

Relative peace, at least.

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

I pick up my crutches and hobble to the other side of the crowded hall, awkwardly push open one of the double doors on the far side and let it slam closed behind me. The bathrooms in one direction and the exit in another, I start off through the doors and down the stone steps into the front garden. The grass was soft from rain the previous day and I’m sure Mycroft would be able to track me without any trouble if he chose to come and find me, but I am reasonably certain he will let this little dissent slide. Standing beside to me all evening would do nothing for his social standing after all.

It takes me 25 minutes to get back to my rooms on crutches but the relief that floods my brain as soon as the door clicks closed behind me is worth the ache in my leg and the burning sensation in the muscles of my arms and on the palms of my hands.

\---

There’s a knock at my door.

I was far too engrossed in my chemistry set to pay particular attention to the footsteps in the hall, so it comes as a surprise and an annoyance; my concentration has been shattered, rendering the last 3 hours totally futile.

“Enter.”

“Oh, hi there, I just came to see how you are. How’s your ankle?”

It’s the boy again; he smells like hay and horses. There’s a smear of dirt across one of his cheekbones, which slant at a curious angle to his jaw, stretching the skin taught to cover the prominent boned curves beneath. He looks nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He’s waiting for me to respond. I can’t help but feel that this is a test, that my brother has something to do with his presence here... but I can’t be sure of it.

“It seems to have set correctly. The cast will be removed in 4 weeks.”

“That’s great to hear! You’ll have to come out riding when you’re all fixed up.”

His head is facing the floor but he holds my gaze, looking up at me through his sandy lashes. I can’t help but wonder how his hair manages to looks like it’s perpetually caught in a breeze.

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

A smile radiates across his face and a hand creeps out of his pocket and smooths over the front of his wax jacket.

“Oh, I look forward to it. Come down to the stables whenever you want and I can have two horses tacked up in no time at all. I mean, or one, obviously, if you wanted to go alone.”

An embarrassed scarlet creeps out from his collar and radiates up and across his cheeks. He starts shuffling backwards towards the door. “Um, I’m glad you’re feeling better. My name’s Victor, by the way,” he mutters to the floor before letting himself out, quick steps fading into the distance.

The whole situation seemed too engineered, but the boy’s face made me uncertain. His reaction had seemed so thoroughly awkward, it reeked of the truth. And if it was the truth, if what had just happened was totally sincere, then the repercussions were far more intimidating.

Maybe I would need Mycroft’s help after all. How unfortunate.

\---

  
The evening meal was held in the dining room at 7pm sharp, as usual. Mycroft had taken the seat next to me, gently jabbing me in the thigh with a salad fork every time I said something he found to be rude or abrasive and tapping his foot against mine whenever he judged it to be my turn to contribute to polite conversation. The whole charade was ridiculous and now, after just over a month of it, was wearing particularly thin.

I excuse myself before dessert, claiming I have a headache and need to get some air outside, which isn’t a total falsity. I’m managing on a single crutch now and make it out onto the front lawn without too much difficulty. I sit myself down on the stone seat, relaxing in the evening sun and looking out across the grounds. The rows of flowerbeds stretch out in front of me, ending in a line of box hedges beyond which lies the paddock.

Victor is exercising Escher, the palomino, standing high in the stirrups and moving in perfect rhythm with the horse beneath him. His face holds a fierce expression of concentration as he rides the animal towards a jump, then leaps in perfect synchronicity with it, gliding through the air and easily cushioning his own landing on the other side. He does all this with an air of confidence that I’ve never seen in him before. The only times we’ve ever spoken, he’s always played the blushing wallflower; now here he was, commanding the powerful beast with grace and ease.

A moment later, Victor is looking out across the garden and waves towards me, grinning. I hesitate before raising my hand in return although I realise that I’m frowning and my hand isn’t really moving, just hanging motionless in the air, so I drop it back down onto my lap.

I can hear Mycroft approaching, padding across the grass behind me.

“You like him.”

“I don’t dislike him. Yet.”

“Always so negative, Sherlock. I think this is a perfect opportunity to put theory into practise.”

“I’d hardly say that watching _Say Anything_  and reading your shoddy, old diaries counts as a solid basis for any kind of theory.”

Mycroft ignores me and continues his lecture regardless, “Remember the couple from the hunting party; intermittent, casual physical contact to the arms and torso, subtle behavioural mimicking and staying engaged. Keep your attention focused and maintain eye contact. Ask questions to establish common interests and volunteer information about yourself.”

“I’ve stopped listening. Weeks ago.”

“You need friends, Sherlock. No man is an island, no matter how hard one may try.”

And with that, he walked back the house.

Mycroft is definitely wrong. I don’t like him. I don’t like anyone, so I’m sure I don’t like him. Why would one idiotic stable boy be the exception to a lifelong rule?

\----

It’s nearly four o’clock.

I’ve arranged the chemistry set in my room so I can face the door and have dragged one of the armchairs over so it’s within 10 feet of where I’m sitting, which I’ve been reliably informed is an appropriate distance to encourage social connectivity.

There’s a knock at the door. He’s slightly early, but I don’t intend to comment on it; it seems to disconcert when I anticipate or comment upon things people think they do at random.

“Come in.” I’m trying to keep the tone positive, but non committal. Was that positive enough? It’s difficult to tell without perspective.

The door opens and in sweeps a perpetually unwanted visitor, “Oh.”

He looks around the room in his characteristically calculated way, “Expecting a visitor are we? How sweet.” He sits in the armchair next to me and brushes an invisible crease from his trouser leg.

“Say whatever is it you’re here to say, then get out.”

“Sweet, but so very restive.”

“Out.”

“How’s progress?”

I can’t decide whether it’s wiser to feign ignorance at this point or to allow Mycroft his thoroughly inevitable bout of self-satisfaction. It’s not a dilemma I battle with for long, as it’s rarely fruitful to outright lie to Mycroft, his radar for such deception is nigh on impeccable.

“Slow. Look, what can I do to make you leave in the next minute and a half or sooner?”

“So soon? Excellent. Now, pay particular attention to the eye contact. Be sure to hold his gaze for at least 1 second longer than is necessary and establish eye contact when none is strictly called for. Keep your peripheral vision alert and try to note any occasion in which he looks at you when your attention is elsewhere.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“At least once, during your little... rendezvous, I want you to attempt physical contact; the areas I suggest you aim for being the arms, hands, shoulder or knee regions. Keep it brief and test the reaction.”

“And out.”

“Good luck.”

As he rises to leave, he pushes the arm chair a few feet closer to where I’m sitting and taps his hand on the top of it. There’s the slightest hint of a smile as he looks down at me before making his exit. I try to think of a time when I’ve resented him more but I really can’t.

It’s about a minute later when there’s a timid, little knock at the door. If I wasn’t listening for it, I don’t know if I would have heard it at all.

“Come in.”

The door opens slowly and a sandy head pops round the corner first, as if checking for danger. He smiles broadly and enters the room properly, his hands wriggling restlessly by their sides.

“Hey. I came to see how you’re getting on.”

“Well. The cast comes off in 2 weeks.”

“Oh, that’s so good to hear! It must be driving you crazy.”

It’s intriguing; he seems to be genuinely happy that my cast is coming off. He’s standing in the middle of the room and I try to think about what Mycroft said whilst also trying not to think about Mycroft.

“Sit.”

I wave my arm towards the chair and he shuffles over to it. He slips his shoes off and brings his knees up to his chest, curling his toes around the edges of the seat cushion, hugging his knees to his chest. He looks around the room for a moment like a wide eyed child.

“I had a cast on my arm once, after I fell off a horse. I think I got cabin fever after a while and I tried to take it off myself with a pair of kitchen scissors. I don’t recommend it.”

He’s stopped looking around the room and now his eyes are fixed on me. Before long I feel the urge to look away; I count two beats before doing it, turning back to my chemistry set and making an effort to look busy. I try to think back to the couple at the bar, and run my fingers up and down the back of my neck as I look into my microscope. Whilst staring into the lens, I can see him out of the very corner of my eye. At first, he was looking at the cast, but his focus seems to creep up my body until it becomes fixed on my drifting fingers. He’s looking at me in a way that I’ve never been subject to before and it’s strange, it feels intense and almost like prickling on my skin.

He asks about the experiment I’m working on and the conversation comes easily. He doesn’t mind talking and it covers the patches of silence that often linger in the room when I’m not sure what the proper thing is to say at any given time. He tells me about his parents and his school and his recent exams and how he got into riding; I’m not paying attention to all of it, but whilst he’s speaking, I have a chance to watch him. His tanned skin flexing and playing over the strangely parallel lines of his face. His fingers feathering over the binding on the armchair, tracing the seams down and along the cushion until he reaches his own feet and curls his hands round them, rocking his whole body forward slightly.

When the conversation goes quiet again, he looks up and me and smiles.

“I better be going, I’ve got work to do.”

“Before you go, could you hand me that note book over on the dressing table?”

He crosses the room and passes me the book. As it’s held out in the space between us, I can feel my chest tighten slightly and have to fortify my resolve.

 _This is it._

I reach out to take it; our fingers overlapping and, to make sure my actions are interpreted as intentional, I slide my thumb slowly across his. The connection only lasts for a second or so, but it stills him completely and he doesn’t let go of the little book immediately, eyes staring down into mine, searching.

He remembers himself, letting go and smiling at me, snapping back into normality. He walks away to the door and when he turns to say goodbye, the familiar flush is blooming from his collar once more. He pulls the corner of his lip into his mouth and bites down on it slightly,

“Bye. Can I see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be waiting.”


End file.
